Tuesday, February 19, 2013

I Left You in My Bathroom, and You Disappeared / They're Watching Sitcoms in Iowa, Larry Levis / [daddy keeps asking*] why does my daughter hit herself

As Michael Dwayne Smith, I did not invent the English language, but I have messed it pretty well. Love child conceived in Buick backseat at the El Monte Drive-In, 1957. Old man was Air Force, 21, and never told me what movie. Mom was nearly 15, carried a switchblade in her bra. Adorable raging alcoholics both. Both dead. My street cred based largely on Hawaiian nose humming skill and coyote farming in Mojave desert. Mastermind behind encrypted messages published at Word Riot, decomP, kill author, and Wow! just so many red rock candy stores or stereophonic outlets near you. Lastly, rumor of my being stolen by aliens untrue (refused abduction on grounds it would be cliché), though I am one of the original Meat Popsicles. Evidence located at http://michaeldwaynesmith.tumblr.com

I Left You in My Bathroom, and You Disappeared
You came over for dinner.  I cooked to impress.  During the curry, lapping our second glass of petite syrah, you broke the news.  Really, I asked, a poet?  I felt—incredulity, a twinge of disapproval, but then a rising smugness, culminating in a piqued elitism.  I’d forgotten poets today are hot little androgynous animals, sex-edgy, razor-cut dangerous, passive-aggressive fetishists, blessed (or is it cursed?) with the black magic of ejaculating beer-shit, gush, and semen stained sentences into readers’ horrified faces.  Beauty is out.  Fucking syllables into submission, the way in.  I inquired politely, and, No, you hadn’t brought your book with, but you’re the real deal, and you could recite every writhing daisy chain and circle jerk of self-loathing meditation, revelation, and constipation.  Page meets stage at the intersection of sage and rage, so to speak, and you’re a batshit crazy, lusty smirk of a live-and-in-person chapbook, perpetual sway of lips and hips and tongue.  I divulged my method of leaving provocative reads in the guest bathroom, my own personal, potent way to spread propaganda—selections like: Modern Drunkard, S & M catalogs, Sparrow’s “Yes, You Are a Revolutionary!”  Would you mind?  You were only too eager to spew apocalyptic, neo-crypto-feminist fourth wave verse while watching my grab bag of friends crap or piss, helping them rub or squeeze one off.  Last week my old college roomy, Jeff, pinched you, snuck off with you, my squeaky-tough, tangly-hair, word-porn booklet!  (Sure sign he enjoys my taste in literature.)  No surprise.  Simple, bitter, and buck naked, you speak to a part of us we’ve all tried to kill off, and anyone who remembers painting maniacal pictures only to have teachers snarl “What’s that supposed to be?” would understand the crippling insecurity and diabolical self-consciousness of a dirty, dirty, self-mutilating poet in the bathroom.  Jeff invited me over to throw a few down the other day, hinting if I stuck around I’d have to use his can, but things have changed.  His fat hands have been all over your pages, his drool on your covers.  I can no longer bear to think about his fingers tracing your spine.  Seems to me now, poets are only death-soaked moments, and only for giving away.  Seems to me now, I’d rather make a coffee table of a novelist.

They’re Watching Sitcoms in Iowa, Larry Levis
The Flag draws one last cartoon breath.  Two-dimensional

soldiers salute in regimental dress, swallow their

silver revolver barrels, white-winged bodies

floating up to heaven, in wavy lines.


Arsoned Wall Street tents flap, & smack their lips

at unemployed cops fighting hand-to-hand

with uniformed thugs.  Hollywood Boulevard tips.

Street light gathers on a Maytag box that coffins Stuttering


Eddie, the fresh dead drunk.

Bible belts strain to contain America’s swollen underbelly.

Crips & Skinheads crack, sign pig fat contracts to protect

& to serve G.E.’s Board of Directors, AKA, the Senate, USA.


The big clock has struck, spilled its irony licks of blood

in the wind.  Most turn against their own.  Some run away,

or try to hide, while lyrical hurricane leaves swirl

in ever-widening spells.


President & Disney property Selena

Gomez gives birth to her sperm donor frack-baby, “Lucky,”

during the White House evacuation.  Her gunnery-pink

helicopter is hit with artillery fire on take-off.


The Internet is down.

Your teapot is boiling.  Electricity just went cold.


[daddy keeps asking*] why does my daughter hit herself

—A transcendental flarf quilt of auto-fill google searches

girls like muscles

girls like cigarettes

girls like bad boys

girls like assholes

girls like boys with skills


why does my arm shake when i eat dirt

why does my mom turn me on

is it called love when someone pees and shits on you during sex

is it healthy to drink your own urine

our pets heads are falling off


why dont women make the first move

why dont women like nice guys

why dont women leave abusive relationships

why dont women fart

why dont women answer when i talk to them on facebook


why does my wife not respect me

why does my wife not want to make love to me

why does my wife hate everything i do

why does my wife blame me for everything

why does my wife want a baby


why does my daughter lie even when it doesnt matter

why does my daughter paint dark circles around her eyes

why does my daughter flip off the camera

why does my daughter cut herself


why are indians afraid of dogs

why are indians obsessed with fairness

why are indians so ugly

why are indians vegetarian

why are indians so racist


when she says i can eat her period

when she says i am out of estrogen and i have a gun

arent you glad you didnt turn on the light

arent you glad i didnt say banana


why cant i own a canadian

dinosaurs were made up by the cia to discourage time travel

urethra franklin is on the fucking radio

whats a girlfriend and where can i download one

my balls are stuck in my xbox


man im hungrier than a muthafucka

man im tired of being right

man im glad im a man

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